


Salvage

by WandererRiha



Series: Single Handed [1]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:53:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6228262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandererRiha/pseuds/WandererRiha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gast tries to fix what Hojo's broken. It's a lot harder to piece a mind back together than it is a body. One-shot done for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/zoegears/pseuds/zoegears">zoegears</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salvage

**Author's Note:**

> For the most part, this follows the same headcanon as "Haunted House".  
> Trigger warnings include self harm, hints at attempted suicide, and non-graphic depictions of blood'n'guts.

Gast was so busy checking off items on his clipboard that he didn’t notice the long metal box until he fell over it. This was not terribly remarkable in and of itself. Gast was often tripping over things that had been left in inconvenient places. However, the box let out a low moan.

“Hello?” Gast asked, gingerly picking himself up off the floor. The corner of the box had been sharp, and the linoleum floor hard. He kicked the box lightly with his toe and it groaned a second time. Dropping to his knees, Gast tossed his clipboard aside and hurried to undo the latches of what he now recognized as a military issue metal coffin.

“Good gods…” he breathed once he’d gotten the lid up. “ _Vincent?_ ”

The Turk had disappeared five years ago in the middle of the excursion to Nibelheim. What had become of him, no one knew. Now here he was laid out in a coffin in the lab storage locker. Hastily, Gast went over him. Vincent did not appear to have a pulse, nor was he breathing, yet his pupils were reactive to light and he inhaled sharply when Gast touched the massive scar in his chest.

“Vincent? Vincent, can you hear me?” Gast asked softly. The Turk managed a weak grunt but otherwise did not respond. Mako poisoning if ever Gast had seen it, and he had, though nowhere near this bad. A noise out in the hall made him look up sharply. The ship to the Northern Continent would be leaving within the hour, and the lab personnel would be coming to collect the equipment any minute. With no other ideas presenting themselves, Gast shut the lid and slapped a label on the coffin. He hated to leave the Turk in there, but it would be best to conduct any further research once they were well away from shore.

\--

It took weeks for the Turk to awaken in any sense of the word, and several more days before he could respond at all to stimuli. Gast took advantage of Vincent’s involuntary sedation to examine him more closely. It wasn’t pretty.

He’d been shot with a large caliber bullet, that much was obvious. The shot had taken off his left arm just below the shoulder, and had no doubt caused significant internal damage. External scars- some only barely healed- told of countless surgeries and extensive abuse. Faint blotches lingered on his skin from some unknown illness, and he was so thin his ribs and pelvis made sharp angles where there should be none. Although that might be due in part to the fact that the Turk had no tongue. It had not been cut but removed, excised and stitched over with surgical precision. Whether that had been the Turks’ doing or someone within the lab, Gast had no idea. The most intriguing mark, however, was the open wound in his chest, filled by a single red Summon materia. Someone had implanted Chaos in his heart.

\--

Vincent did not immediately take to life in the North. Upon regaining full consciousness, he promptly worked himself into a panic and transformed into a Behemoth. A great many things were broken before Ifalna managed to calm the beast. For hours he lay at her feet, his great head in her lap, while she stroked his fur until at last it was Vincent who lay asleep in her arms.

The Turk had a bit of a phobia when it came to syringes and scalpels which, given the many scars, was understandable. He didn’t like the IV drip _at all_ and no amount of pleading and persuading could keep him from tearing it out. Although all his teeth were intact- his eyeteeth had extended into sharp fangs- without at least the stub of a tongue, Vincent was unable to chew or safely swallow. Instead, they fed him such things that he could manage: broth, porridge, cocoa, and a local concoction similar to a milkshake called a “smoothie”. It was better than nothing, but did little to add any meat to the Turk’s long bones.

Once he was strong enough to leave his bed, it was difficult to corral him. He didn’t seem to understand that outdoors meant snow and subzero temperatures. Like a trapped animal, Vincent would claw at the door and beat on the windows, desperate to escape the back bedroom. He did a little better in the living area, though Gast was leery of letting him into the kitchen. After wandering around a bit, looking at the sofa and coffee table as if he’d never seen such things before, Vincent settled down in front of the furnace and watched the burning coals until he fell asleep on the hearth.

When Gast went to check on him an hour later, he was gone.

It wasn’t the last time they would have to search for him in the snow.

Mercifully, the sun was still out, and he was still too weak to make it very far. Without a coat and shoes, Vincent had stumbled out into the snow and walked until he’d collapsed. It took both Gast and Ifalna to drag him back, the Turk’s fair skin blue with cold, but remarkably undamaged. The locals- who by now knew to look out for “the Professor’s mad brother”- called him lucky, remarking that precious few survived such an adventure with all their digits and nose intact. However, the cold did not seem to affect Vincent at all. A few weeks later, he disappeared a second time, having again escaped without their noticing. Despite the setting sun, Gast had gone after him but was forced to return home or risk freezing to death himself. Word came three days later of a tall man in nothing more than a shirt and trousers seen near the edge of the Great Glacier. A search party was assembled to retrieve him, the echoes of his crazed laughter leading them right to him. His tears had frozen to his cheeks, and his eyes glowed red and wild, but outside of that, Vincent seemed no worse for wear and let them lead him back without protest.

He became very quiet after that: quiet in his movements, in his posture. He no longer tried to escape, but sat curled up as small as he could make himself either in his bed, or the old wing chair that was too high for either Gast or Ifalna to sit in comfortably. Ifalna had to beg him to eat, and even then he either would not, or could not finish his food. More than once, Gast caught him curled up with his head between his knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

After that, he started to bite himself.

Ifalna began to keep the knives and scissors in a locked drawer in the kitchen. Gast likewise made sure the scalpels and anything else with a sharp edge was kept safely out of reach, but it didn’t stop Vincent from tearing into his own flesh with his teeth. Since needles weren’t an option- and Gast had no wish to grapple with a man who was taller, stronger, and trained to kill with his bare hands even if he only had one left- Gast snuck sedatives into the food Ifalna managed to coax down Vincent’s throat. It felt like betrayal, but he refused to be responsible for the Turk’s death. It was bad enough being responsible for what had gotten him this way.

“Are you ready to tell me what this is about?” Gast asked when Vincent awoke dazed and groggy after his fifth attempt, his forearm stiff with bandages. The Turk just turned away and looked at the wall. Although unable to talk, Vincent’s expression spoke clearly enough of exhaustion, pain, and a sadness so deep that he had yet to find the bottom. Gast sighed, feeling helpless and frustrated himself.

“Ifalna and I are getting married,” he said, resting a hand on the Turk’s shoulder. That made Vincent look up. Gast went on. “We’d like you to be there. Do you think you could manage that?”

He didn’t smile exactly, but the grieved expression lightened a little and he nodded. Gast smiled wide enough for both of them and patted his shoulder.

“Good man.”

Ilfana and Gast were married a few weeks later, just a small, private ceremony with Vincent sitting awkward and silent in the back of the chapel, one of Gast’s ties knotted around the neck of his flannel shirt. There had been some discussion of spending their wedding night at the local inn, or perhaps sending Vincent over to stay with the neighbors- now good friends- but in the end, Vincent solved the problem himself by going up to the second floor living area and making himself comfortable on the couch. The next morning dawned to an only slightly sloppy breakfast set out waiting for them, and Vincent outside, venting his frustrations on the woodpile.

\--

It wasn’t until they learned Ifalna was pregnant that Vincent finally began to consider rejoining the human race. He began to write them notes in a shaky hand asking for things: boots, trousers that fit his long legs, a coat, and- if they trusted him- a gun. Gast readily agreed to all but that last item. Vincent could handle an Oxford shirt well enough with one hand, able to slide his emaciated wrist through the cuff without undoing the button, but boots were another matter. Shoelaces were utterly beyond him, so they scavenged a pair of combat boots that zipped up the front from the local army surplus store. With him unable to manage a coat zipper, however, they looked for something with buttons. Apparently ski jackets were no longer made that way, and so Vincent went home with a handsome cloak of deep red wool.

He sat nervously while Ifalna cut his hair, free hand in Gast’s, for even the simple kitchen scissors made him uncomfortable. Although Gast kept his mustache, facial hair didn’t look quite the same on Vincent. Happily, the local store had begun carrying a new invention: a type of disposable razor blade mounted in a plastic handle. Gast made sure he wasn’t far off whenever these were in use, and that they were never left lying about. Despite his missing arm, Vincent began to seem like his old self.

He did his best to help; around the house, around the lab. Although he still didn’t like the research area, it no longer triggered panic attacks. His height made him useful for fetching things down from high shelves, saving both Gast and Ifalna the annoyance of climbing onto a chair. It wasn’t easy getting along single-handed, and a lot of glass and china was broken. Gast offered to make him a prosthetic, and Vincent seemed interested until Gast mentioned automail.

“It wouldn’t be major surgery,” Gast went on, warming to the topic. “I’ve been reading all about neural interfaces and electro-organic hookups, I think you’d be an excellent candidate for…” he trailed off, noticing the snow-white pallor of Vincent’s face.

“You think not?” Gast asked. Vincent shook his head so hard Gast feared his brain would rattle inside his skull. The Turk knew military sign language, and had taught the two-dozen or so gestures to the two of them. His right arm flailed, signing “abort” repeatedly.

“Alright,” Gast said soothingly, catching Vincent’s hand and holding it in both of his. “It’s alright. I’m sorry. No surgery. I promise.”

Gast still read up on the subject, fascinated by the new field. It lost some of its lustre, however, when Vincent woke up screaming later that night. He’d nearly thrown Gast through the wall and rushed blindly up the stairs. Ifalna managed to alter his trajectory by getting in the way and nearly trampled. This sent him into the living area, where he attempted to climb over the coal stove in his raw panic to get away from them.

Vincent screamed, the deep voice that Gast remembered twisted shrill, as the stench of burning skin filled the air. Ifalna clapped her hands over her mouth and lurched toward the bathroom. It was just as well. A moment later, not Vincent but an enormous blonde man who looked as if he’d been pieced together from spare parts stood bewildered on the hearth rug. Gast immediately put his hands up in surrender and backed away. Like Vincent, the huge man seemed intent on escape, but stopped short when he saw Ifalna coming out of the bathroom. Gast moved to put himself between them, but halted abruptly as the creature bowed to her.

They gave him cocoa in a saucepan and sat with him in front of the coal stove until the chocolate was gone, and Vincent lay curled up with his head in Ifalna’s lap.

Sighing heavily, Gast draped both arms around his wife.

“What?” she asked softly.

“I just wish I could do more for him,” he said, careful to keep his voice low. It was entirely too easy to startle the Turk into full, frightened wakefulness. “We still have no idea what happened, or how best to help him. I feel like we’re just limping along, barely keeping him afloat. I thought maybe having two hands would help him feel whole again, but I just frightened him worse.”

Ifalna smiled at him and cupped his jaw with her free hand. “I know you just want to help, that you want to see him happy, but the mind doesn’t heal at the same rate as the body. Vincent’s not ready to have two hands yet. He may never be.”

“He was my responsibility, Iffy… You all were.”

“He was there as our security detail. He knew the risks, what he was signing up for.”

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t sign up for this,” Gast grumbled, feeling even worse. “Gods know what Grim would say.”

“I think he’d be happy that his son is still alive.”

Gast nodded, knowing she was right. It didn’t make his failure hurt any less.

\--

With Ifalna nearing the end of her pregnancy, Vincent did his best to take over many of her chores and duties so that she would have more time to relax. He was getting good at doing things single-handed. Whether he could ever live on his own- because of his handicap and other reasons- Gast wasn’t sure, but Vincent made a decent show of self-sufficiency. 

Weeks ago Gast had abandoned the task of splitting kindling for the kitchen stove. Even with only one arm, Vincent was stronger as well as immune to frostbite. The Turk seemed glad to be useful, and while Gast worried about him wielding a potential weapon, it seemed to never have entered Vincent’s head to turn the axe on himself or anyone else.

It was unusually cold that year, even by Northern standards, and the wolves had crept ever closer to the village. Apparently, they’d thought a one-armed human would be easy pickings. They thought wrong. By the time Gast made it out of the house to investigate the shout and the barking, the snow was running with blood. Vincent was gone and so were the wolves. Instead, a small, dark-haired woman in ragged clothes was sectioning one of the larger logs into pieces with a chainsaw. She waved briefly, and Gast, bewildered, waved back. It was Vincent- shirt torn and bloody, though otherwise unharmed- who carried in the wood.

\--

Perhaps he worried about his own instability, but as they counted down the final days before the baby’s birth, Vincent gave Ifalna a wider and wider cushion of space. Although she offered to let him put his hand on her belly to feel the baby kick, he refused, shoving his hand in his pocket. After Aeris was born, he seemed afraid to be in the same room with her and hovered at the doorway, watching from a distance.

“Would you like to hold her?” Ifalna asked. Vincent shook his head furiously and tucked his arm close to his chest. Ifalna ignored him.

“Here,” she said, pulling him over to the sofa. “Sit down.”

Obediently, Vincent did as he was told. As if preparing an older sibling, Ifalna stacked pillows on either side of Vincent before carefully maneuvering Aeris into his arm. “There now,” she smiled. 

Vincent and the baby regarded one another, neither quite sure what to make of the other. After several minutes, the corners of Vincent’s mouth crept up into a rusty smile. Briefly, he turned the smile on Ifalna before looking at the baby again. The stub of his shoulder twitched beneath his empty sleeve as he reached to touch the baby’s cheek with a finger he did not have.

“You want to touch her?”

Vincent nodded.

“Okay, here.” Ifalna took her daughter back and sat down next to Vincent so he could fuss over her. Although he could not speak any more than the baby, a soft noise escaped Vincent’s throat as Aeris curled her hand around his finger.

“Can you say ‘hi’ to Uncle Vincent, Aeris?” Ifalna asked. Obligingly, Aeris cooed and smiled, and the look on Vincent’s face made Gast think that maybe he hadn’t failed him after all.

\--

The banging on the door did not bode well. Either it was an emergency or…

“There you are. I’ve been searching for you, Ifalna... Or should I say, ‘Cetra’?” He smiled and nodded politely, walking right past Ifalna who had opened the door. “Gast. It’s been a while.”

Gast blinked. Of all people, he had not expected Hojo and two soldiers to show up on his doorstep.

“Hojo,” Gast stammered, more confused than anything. “What are you doing here?”

“Believe me, I had to turn over a stone or two to find you,” he mused, wandering over to the bassinet. “Two years I waited…That’s how much I wanted this new sample.”

“A new sample?” Gast echoed. “You don’t mean Aeris?!”

There was a crash as a chair toppled to the floor. Vincent stood near it, eyes glowing red as the coals in the stove, fangs bared and hackles raised. Hojo took a step back, shocked. Ifalna flew to the crib and scooped up her daughter.

“Wait, you’re still alive?” Hojo asked, bewildered. Vincent’s only reply was an angry roar so loud it shook the light fixture. Fabric tore as a pair of bat-like wings erupted from Vincent’s back. Giving another bellow of rage, he rushed at Hojo. The guards opened fire and Gast instinctively dove in front of his wife and daughter. Vincent snarled, Hojo screamed, and so did the guards. There was a deeply unpleasant ripping sound and then a gust of frigid air as the front door swung open.

When Gast looked up, Vincent was gone and so were Hojo and the guards. Well, they weren’t _gone_ , but they were undeniably dead. Little more than three bloody piles of entrails remained to litter the snow outside. Ifalna turned away, hugging her daughter close. The sight too much even for his scientist’s stomach, Gast leaned over the doorstep and retched.

\--

They did not see Vincent again, nor did any more guards come to visit them. Rumors began to circulate that Gast’s mad brother had killed someone, but Gast managed to blame the incident on the wolves, including Vincent as one of the possible casualties. Although the locals helped him mount a search, they found no trace of the one-armed Turk.

However, there were other matters that needed their attention. What with Hojo’s disappearance, Shinra needed a new department head. Although Gast hated to leave without Vincent, a few months later saw them on a ship headed back to Midgar. Hojo had made a mess of things, and it took a while to sort out the ethics nightmare that had evolved during his absence.

The first thing Gast did was formally adopt Sephiroth. With both his father and mother gone, the boy had no one else. He was painfully glad to have his ‘Uncle Faremis’ back, and seemed intrigued by his new sister. Both Sephiroth and Aeris got three more siblings once Gast learned about- and thirty seconds later shut down- Deepground. Ifalna took it all in stride, glad that her new children were by and large old enough to see to themselves. There was plenty to do, both the Science Department and his family filling every second of every day, but he continued to hold out hope that one day Vincent would reappear.

He found a clue in the unlikely vehicle of a scientific journal. The archeologists at Bone Village had made reference several times to some new species of animal. No one had gotten a good look at it, but it was perhaps six foot long and had red wings like a bat or a dragon. Gast announced an expedition to the site the same day. They made a vacation of sorts out of it, Ifalna and all the children accompanying him. At fourteen, Sephiroth was old enough to think it a great adventure. Rosso and Weiss were of the same opinion. Nero hid in Aeris’ shadow and hoped the creature was nocturnal.

Many a groundbreaking discovery was made on that trip: the ruins of a Cetra city, a primitive hologram, a veritable maze of mosaics, miles of texts, and mountains of artifacts, yet Gast was disappointed. There was no trace of the red-winged creature no matter how acutely they studied the skies. In the end it was Nero who noticed the shadow pass over the moon, and went unafraid to greet a fellow creature of the dark.

It was Vincent- mostly. It was his face, his right arm, his torso full of scars with a materia glowing red where his heart had once been. That was where familiarity ended. The red leather bat’s wings that the archeologists had documented stood mounted on his shoulders; functional limbs as much as his arms, of which he now had two. The right was human, with short, broken nails and tanned skin. The left, by contrast, was inky black fading to gray where it met his shoulder, each finger tipped with a lethal-looking claw. His feet also bore talons, a long barbed tail trailing behind him, and a pair of horns cresting his head. All that remained of his clothing was a drape of red rag knotted around his hips; the tattered remnants of his cloak. Although his eyes glowed red in the starlight, he looked down at the boy and smiled, exposing long fangs. Slowly, cautiously, Gast went over to stand behind his son.

“Vincent?”

Vincent cocked his head to one side, but apart from the slowly lashing tail, did not move.

“Vincent, it’s Gast. Do you remember me?”

It didn’t look like it. On all fours Vincent climbed down from his perch in one of the bare white trees and walked up to them on knuckles and toes to get a better look. He sniffed curiously at Nero and then gently butted him with his head. The boy laughed and petted Vincent’s hair, which he seemed to enjoy. Vincent studied Gast a bit longer. He sniffed at the hand he offered, then rose to stand on two legs, took Gast’s hand in his own, and shook. Despite the familiar gesture, Gast was not at all sure Vincent truly recognized him or anyone else. The Turk inspected everyone, sniffing hands and being petted like a stray dog. Vincent’s behavior was primarily animal, with a few human nuances thrown in here and there. He did not speak, but Gast got the impression that his silence was because he had forgotten what language was, and not from a physical inability to form the words. It was not all he had forgotten.

Vincent had turned feral, becoming an amalgamation of his limit breaks, perhaps no more than an exceptionally intelligent beast. He knew his own name, but that seemed to be the extent of his memory. When questioned he would tilt his head from side to side, as if trying to understand, but quickly lost patience and would wander off after only a few minutes. He seemed to alternate between bipedal and all fours as the need arose, favoring neither one nor the other. Gast had not seen him hunt or eat, but Vincent’s ribs were no longer visible, hidden beneath a layer of hard muscle.

The children wanted to bring him home as a pet. In his heart, Gast wanted to as well.

“What do you think?” He asked Ifalna the day they were scheduled to return to Midgar. “Should we take him back with us?”

Ifalna shook her head. “I don’t think you could unless you put him in a cage, and no one wants that.”

“But we could help him,” he insisted. 

Smiling, Ifalna took his hand.

“You did help him,” she told him. “You kept him alive and sane those first years. After he saved us...maybe, this was the only way he could move forward?”

Gast looked up at the ledge of rock and broken building that Vincent had made his eyrie. Head resting on his crossed arms, his shoulders rose and fell gently as he slept in the sunlight.

“I just wish I could’ve done more,” Gast lamented. “I feel like I’ve failed him…”

“He’s happy,” Ifalna assured him, kissing her husband’s cheek. “He doesn’t remember what happened to him, and if he does, it doesn’t seem to bother him. He’s strong and healthy. Does it really matter if he no longer remembers the man he was? Those memories only caused him pain. He’s happy now,” she repeated. “Isn’t that what you wanted? For him to be happy?”

Squeezing her hand, Gast had to concede that it was.


End file.
